


Foolish

by Feynite



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Deep Roads, F/M, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:41:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6531544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is strange. With the Crows, one learns not to hope beyond measure. There are good things to be had, but they are not the grand, good things of stories and daydreams; they are simple things. Good food, good sex, a comfortable bed, a nice pair of boots… hoping for more simply leads to disappointment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foolish

Zevran is not a great fan of the Deep Roads.

In truth, he has met few people who would claim different sentiments towards them. Even to the dwarves, they seem more like monuments to fallen times, really; depressing in their unlikelihood of ever being reclaimed for some nobler purpose than serving as warrens for darkspawn hordes and their highly disturbing nests. Little more than a reminder of what has been lost, and probably cannot be regained.

But then, there is always hope. 

Zevran recalls, sometimes, being a child in the brothels, and dreaming of vast swathes of wilderness. His experience beyond Antiva City was non-existent; so his imaginings had taken on many wild and inaccurate forms. But he had dreamed of elves with painted faces, and fantastical clothing, who might steal into the brothel one night and come and find him.

“At last, little brother, we have found you!” they would exclaim. Then they would take him away, to live among the free elves; where there was, somehow, always plentiful food, and friendly animals, and big flowers like the kind they sold in the upper city marketplaces; the sort that the more _respectable_  customers would sometimes bring as gifts to their favourite whores.

Adulthood had disabused him of such fantasies swiftly, of course. In truth they had not outlived his teenage years. There was no wild utopia for the elves, not in Antiva nor in any other country; and even if there had been, to them, he would only be another flat-ear. Looked down upon among them as surely as he was among anyone else. Forests were full of mud and bugs and animal droppings, far more often than beautiful flowers and delicious fruit. At least Antiva City had some grandeur to it. It was his home; it had a heritage he could claim, and no one would care to deny him that, or require he prove his ‘Antivan-ness’ to some arbitrary standard.

No, Zevran had thought; no Dalish elves would be coming for him, to rescue him from the hardships of his life.

Until, at the most unexpected moment, one did.

He looks to where his warden is sleeping. Their little campsite is quiet. The firelight reflects oddly off the stone walls, but she had been confident that the darkspawn were far enough away to not pose a threat, even if the nearest horde were to spend the entire night moving towards them. So they had set out traps for the spiders and deepstalkers, and she had promptly fallen asleep.

Exhausted as she is, it is no surprise.

She does not sleep well. She moves in fits and turns. There are dark shadows under her eyes, and there is a brittleness to her that he cannot truly ease. Only distract her from. Since the skies have decided to be particularly uncooperative and split themselves open, it has only grown worse. She hears them _calling,_  she says.

“Well, that is most presumptuous of them. Tell them you are spoken for,” he quips back, light and breezy as ever. But his heart sinks into his stomach.

It is strange. With the Crows, one learns not to hope beyond measure. There are good things to be had, but they are not the grand, good things of stories and daydreams; they are simple things. Good food, good sex, a comfortable bed, a nice pair of boots… hoping for more simply leads to disappointment.

But then more had come to him anyway, and what kind of a fool would not take it? So now he wonders. Who would tell the dwarves not to dream of reclaiming the Deep Roads? Who would tell the brothel orphan boy not to dream of being rescued by distant relations? Who would tell the warden’s lover to simply let the darkspawn have them?

What would _truly_  be foolish?

Zevran reaches over, and smooths his hand over her brow. Some of the lines on her face ease, just a little. She settles under his touch, however briefly, and he is grateful for that. He needs to sleep, too. But he cannot help watching over her these days. Waiting for the inevitable nightmares to strike; and waiting, too, for his chance to wage war upon them. Even if it is only with the paltry weapons of his touch and voice. Still, he will stroke her forehead, and whisper affection, and know that in some small way, he can pull her back from them.

Well.

He is much better company than the darkspawn anyway, if he does say so himself.


End file.
